Nothing Cold Can Stay

The river boils here in the winter. Not actually, but one could be convinced by the steam it emits. The air around the river is so much colder than the water, it seems like if one were to dip their toe in, it might be cooked.

I longed to escape this town. I dreamed of sprawling green hills, somewhere in the south, where the days grow warm in the early weeks of March. Somewhere without air that bites at your skin or rips through your clothes as you journey down the street.

Gray. The defining color of this town. It’s a mood, really. From September to June, the streets and sidewalks are lined with salt, creating their signature shade. Pallid faces fill the church on Sunday, as people make their weekly journey into town. Bi-weekly, I should say, as there is a very dedicated bingo crowd that gathers at the American Legion outpost on Wednesday evenings.

One gloomy Saturday morning, I set out to gaze over the river. A little ways down the road from my apartment on Main Street, stood a covered bridge, a New England specialty, where I planned to take shelter as I canvassed the area for any sign of spring. I pulled on my muck boots and knit hat, shoved my hands deep into my pockets, and walked down the 100 year old steps of my building. Like grazing sheep, clouds shifted aimlessly over the surface of the river. The whirr of the water flowing over the granite rocks that’ve surely existed as long as time itself, crisply fell upon my ears. For a moment, I closed my eyes, and allowed myself to be carried away in the melody. The magic of this place, the land of Robert Frost, is the ease with which one can become completely severed from the mundane, gray world, and escape into the majesty of nature.

I looked down at my fingers, still pale from a long winter, thirsting for the sun’s warmth. It seemed like this winter stretched its icy arms out far longer than any I could remember. The thaw should have been upon us, yet we remained in a cold, frosty world.

Having found no visible signal that the world might be relieved from this never ending season, I decided to make my way back into town, up the cobblestone steps and between the ancient brick buildings. I retrieved some cookie dough and a bottle of wine from the market and hoped it might ease some of the winter’s chill.

The smell of fresh baked cookies is almost as warming to my soul as the smell of the first spring day. My refuge in all the world is a two bedroom apartment on the third floor of a 100 year old big yellow house. Sometimes I sit on the ornate handrail, where it coils up like a snake at the base of the stairs, and watch out the window as life moves through the streets. The ceiling in my apartment is very low, which is common for a New England house of this age. The feeling of being closed in is mitigated by the many windows on the walls. They are portals where sun streams in through the snarling branches of the trees. The floor beneath my feet is always cold; it’s a dark cherry wood that creaks whenever I move. It lets me know when I’m not alone.

Through my favorite window overlooking the river, I gazed out and saw everything the light from the full moon illuminated - silhouettes of pointed treetops, the shining, steamy surface of the water. I could see the familiar shape of the truss that stretched across the river, and something new.

Lanterns on the bridge revealed shadowy figures skulking along the tracks. In the orange glow, one being paused at the edge, raised its arms up, and dropped down into the steaming river. At the same moment, all the lanterns blew out. My breath caught in my throat and my heart squeezed in my chest, like putty in a fidgety child’s hand. Before I knew it, my muck boots were on my feet and I was out the door.

The air hit my lungs like a thousand shards of glass. The whole town slept while I walked at an expeditious clip down the street, snow crunching under my boots. Silence at night in a sleepy town is more than a lack of sound. It is a tangible emptiness; an all-encompassing presence. Clearly, you are alone, but are you? Are you alone in the presence of the watchful mountains that have endured every season for millions of years, the dark whispering woods, the rushing river? This town is hundreds of years old, certainly not all who have passed through here are gone. There is an ancient energy in this place; anyone who traveled here took a piece with them, and left a piece of themselves behind.

My pace slowed as I rounded the corner towards the bridge. The moon shone down through the vaporous atmosphere above the river. A wave of apprehension swelled inside of me as I nervously approached the tracks. The rush of water below called out and rang in my ears, and I could almost make out the message. I drew closer to where the figure once stood.

I peered over the edge. I am not alone. Surrounded by the deep, dark woods, I looked down at the raging river, and knew in my bones I was not alone. A flock of crows that roosted in the trees above took flight, startled by something I could not perceive. I turned around on my heel as quickly as I could to head for the safety of solid ground under my feet, but froze. Some unseen force took hold of me. I felt a dozen hands on my body, guiding me toward the edge. Every inch I moved against my will, I screamed inside. I looked over the edge again and saw the black river glistening through the mist. My heart dropped into my stomach as all the lanterns ignited with a whoosh.

Six of the shadowy figures reappeared on the bridge around me. They were so indistinguishable from the darkness that they seemingly became part of the forest, phasing in and out of the empty spaces between the trees. Two of the figures pulled me back from the edge, while one stood in front of me. He held a book in his arm and raised his hand above my head. He opened his mouth to speak, and out came the sound of water freezing into ice, then ice cracking and crashing down the side of a cliff; the sound of polar wind howling through the notch, blowing snow from one peak to another. The beings grabbed my wrists with their frozen fingers, walked me to the edge of the bridge, raised my arms up. We stood there for a moment where I breathed in all that I could.

Time slowed down. I looked up at the stars; I saw the Milky Way, the dark void in the atmosphere, looking back at me. The cold air tore through my clothes and as I flew down to the water. I felt every bit of my body meeting the water. The water burned like liquid nitrogen on my skin, surrounding me in a fiery cocoon. I kicked and screamed through the bubbling water as it filled my lungs; the bottom, nowhere to be reached.

A force from below pulled me deeper under and I saw her face, wavy and wrinkled. Her huge black eyes, darker than the night sky, pierced through my soul. She held my writhing body in place as time rushed by. I could feel myself breaking apart and letting go, becoming swallowed by the void.

I thought of spring. I thought of flowers bursting through fuchsia buds, growing into lush green leaves. I remembered the warmth of the sun on my skin, and the heartbeat of the open wilderness. I shut my eyes, and my world went black.

All was still around me, except for the pulse. I moved through the darkness somehow, despite my body being lost. Unable to see anything around me, I followed the vibration pulling on it like a string. Suddenly, a pin sized drop of light appeared and exploded into the most vibrant display of brilliance.

When the light absolved me from the infinite darkness, I found myself laying in a vivid green meadow. A gentle, warm breeze grazed my face as tall blades of grass swayed in the sun. A melody drifted through the air as birds flew over me. I felt my soul melt into the earth below.